


party favors

by dormant_bender



Series: two's company, three's a crowd. [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Eventual Relationships, I Don't Even Know, Jealousy, M/M, Neymar's POV, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Game(s), Random Encounters, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Crush, Shameless Smut, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6554638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Put-off by the loss against Atlético Madrid, Neymar plans a party back at his house.</p><p>But he gets more than he bargained for, not that he's complaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	party favors

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is. 
> 
> Terfinha is precious, but so is Neyfinha? So I sort of combined it? Heh.
> 
> TerNeyFinha ? 
> 
> Anywho: probably riddled with mistakes as I just wrote it, but I promise I'll edit it later on tonight. :3

Low team spirits meant lack of motivation, and that was simply no good.

Which was why he had used his vices to his advantage to single-handedly plan a party at his house back in Barcelona. Granted it probably wasn't the best of ideas—not that he was particularly known for having those, but that didn't matter.

All the Brazilian desired was high moral to finish the Copa del Rey and to win La Liga; it's not like he—they—could accomplish that with the severe blow to their confidence last evening. Barcelona would be the best in something this year, that Neymar was certain of, even if it meant not earning the Treble. 

He winces at that as he checks the island in his kitchen for all the food he had managed to have catered to his house along with a litany of hardly pronounceable names of alcohol he'd had packaged to his house. If anything could cheer someone up, he could only assume it would be alcohol and food; at least then some sorrows would be cured, especially if the mind was numb.

Headphones are snugly wrapped around his neck as he double-checks everything before the guys start to file in. Sneaker-clad feet shuffle across the freshly steamed carpet, that would surely gather crimson stains before night's end, and towards the living room where he had speakers lining the walls. The music is boisterous and played only the liveliest music available on his iPod, which was generally all of it.

Eventually he hears the sound of the doorbell ringing and attempts to moonwalk backwards toward it but fumbles as he does so, quickly righting himself to open the door. "That doesn't look like a face ready to party," scolds the Brazilian as he reaches forward fingers forward to press upon the latter's cheeks until a slight smile appears. "You look like you could use a few beers or a blowjob, probably both."

Ivan blinks at him and groans lowly at the Brazilian's usual antics but offers a weak smile nonetheless. "I just need some sleep, is all. I just knew how you would react if I didn't come, so I figured I would. I came with Mascherano, he's somewhere out there parking." He motions nonchalantly towards the front of the home and shifts to enter the home.

"Yeah, well. No sleeping, not at my house. We don't sleep here, that's a violation of the Neymar-rule. But by all means, do whatever you do for fun." Neymar motions towards the inside of the home enthusiastically as he shifts to poke his head through the door, glancing about for sign of Javier. "Oi! Not on the grass, I just—Well, not me, but—Thanks!"

With that the Argentinian strolls casually towards the door, looking slightly peeved, but he doesn't express it as he offers the Brazilian a pat on the shoulder. "Munir told Enrique that you were planning this party, just a heads up."

"Merdinha." 

Neymar mentally curses himself as he allows the door to slide shut behind him then joins the two males in the living room. The two are talking in low whispers about the game, and what the plan would be to win La Liga and the Copa. That's not why he had planned this party, however, but he decides not to interrupt the conversation over it. If strategies equaled fun for the men, who was he to judge?

Boring, but whatever.

Eventually he meanders into the kitchen to fetch one of the slender bottles of beer there and takes a deep swig, at least that diminishes some of his inhibitions. Another song transitions and the Brazilian can hardly resist the sweet hum of the beat as he shimmies his shoulders and wiggles his hips, though it lacked rhythm and finesse. 

Hazel eyes slide to the unlocked door where more of the team entered, these patrons looking far more animated about the party. Almost instantaneously he finds himself at the door once more to greet his guests, tugging Dani into a tight hug, then offering Rafinha a one-armed one.

"Minha princesa~" He teases lightheartedly, which earns a groan from Rafinha, but a deep chuckle from Dani who pats the younger of the three's head.

Rafinha offers Neymar the finger and shoves past him in favor of the kitchen, not even needing the directions. Emerald hues follow after his retreating form before he glances back at the other Brazilian whose grinning broadly. He returns the smile with one of his own, snatching away the beer that the latter sports. "This feels more like a meeting than an actual party. I expected more than this," teases the bulkier male as he claps the smaller on the back. "Just look at Javi and Ivan, bickering like old ladies."

"Meu deus, you noticed, too. I'd blame it on old age but they're not even that old." Snickers bubble from plump lips as he hunches forward, Dani leaning over his form for support as he, too, joins in the chuckles.

"Just wait till our song comes on. After all: the party doesn't start till I walk in, right?" 

The Brazilian snickers once more then nods his head in the direction of the kitchen, "Party started when I was born, actually. This right here? Just give it twenty-minutes, once the alcohol kicks in, it'll be lit."

"I hope so, otherwise this was a fail in trying to get everyone cheered up."

When the two finally make it within the kitchen area, they find Rafinha sitting on one of the counter tops nursing a beer, eyes gleaming brightly beneath the lights. Dani follows suit and plucks one from the ice and mimics the younger while Neymar only grins smugly. Phase one: get everyone drunk, partly a success. Now he just had the rest of the team to trick.

Minutes pass by while the three converse in the kitchen, meanwhile the rest of the team arrives in groups until everyone in present. There are a variety of different bodies pressed into corners of the living room and kitchen, some drinking, some eating, some even laughing.

Rafinha straightens up on the counter abruptly and it doesn't go unnoticed by the Brazilian who quirks a curious brow, glancing towards his line of vision to find a tall German strolling through the door. The blond glances this way and that as if seeking out someone in particular but fails with a soft sigh followed by the hunch of his shoulders as he reluctantly goes to one of the couches.

Like that the brunet hops off the counter, a tiny smile twitching across his lips, as he moves to leave the kitchen. Neymar catches him by the arm before he can make a getaway, however, and twirls him back around. "Where do you think you're going, princess?"

Dani perks up at that as well, holding a hand up to Geri, who leans forward to join the conversation as well. Nosy little shits. Chocolate eyes glance from Neymar's face to Dani's then Geri's and back again, releasing a soft groan. "Mats looks a little lonely over there, and I mean—why should I not go over there?You did say the point of this was to have fun, didn't you?" He quirks a dark brow at the latter who smirks.

"Well, yeah. That was sort of the point, but why can't you have fun with us?"

Russet cheeks are flushing a rosy color as he scratches at the back of his head, averting his gaze back towards the couch once more; the blond was stationary as he throws his arms along the back of the couch, eyes focused now on the television that is showing muted music videos.

"I'm always with you guys, meu deus. You're not gonna die without me here for ten minutes, will you?" Neymar parts his mouth to retort—the two other male's listening in glancing at each other with amused grins—and decidedly clamps his lips shut. "Plus I like him, and he doesn't call me princess." With that the brunet offers Neymar a playful wink as reaches across the counter to press a finger into the chocolate fountain there, poking the Brazilian on the nose.

"Did you just see that?" Neymar nearly shrieks aloud as he motions wildly in the direction of Rafinha's retreating form, the brunet casting a glance over his shoulder, his tongue darting out to lick the remainder of the chocolate off.

Geri brushes it off with a wave of his hand then offers a chuckle, "Look at that: he doesn't want to be under your ass for once, and you're butt-hurt over it. How sad."

Dani exhales with a snort as he wraps an arm around the taller's shoulders, snickering softly. "Are you going to cry, Ney?"

"You guys are dicks." 

Without so much of a parting regard, the brunet pushes away from the counter, favoring seeking out one raven-haired man in particular. Not that he knows for sure that he's there, but if he is, he would more than likely be hanging out somewhere in the corners of the room overlooking the rest of the guys; just like a responsible brother would do. 

Ha.

Sometimes he made himself laugh.

Eventually he finds the man he is looking for hanging out by the staircase, fingers absently texting on the screen of the phone, which illuminates his pale face in its off-blue glow. He clears his throat awkwardly and the man glances up, a small smile rapidly finding its way onto his face. A single hand raises to wave in his general direction before he sends a parting text out to whomever he was talking to; his wife, probably, as he spots photos of their family on the screen seconds before it times out.

"You haven't been causing any trouble yet, have you?"

Offense is plain on the Brazilian's face when he scoffs, maneuvering a hand to slant over his chest. "I'm appalled you would say something like that, Leo. When have I ever caused any trouble?"

"Remember that one time—"

"Okay, fine. But that was once, and I said I wouldn't do it again." Messi coins him a doubtful glance but doesn't press that matter further. "No trouble yet anyway, which is partially why I hosted this party."

Messi shakes his head in disapproval, running his digits through his dark locks, mussing them up. "I don't know why that would be your main priority."

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that," murmurs the Brazilian defensively as he leans across the rail of the stairway towards the Argentinean. "So I guess you figured that I had ulterior motives all this time?"

All the elder male does is coin him another knowing look, one that states he knew exactly what he was planning before even acting on it yet. "You're not that hard to figure out at all, especially now that I know you as well as I do. I just hope that you know what you're doing and that it doesn't blow up in your face, like it usually tends to do."

For a moment the two lapse into complete silence despite the raucous from the living room—a variety of laughs and amused snorts, which is slightly drowned out by the sound of music. Making good decisions on the pitch were one thing, but life decisions were completely different. Hence why he's standing there glancing back towards the crowd in the living room currently dancing to the music playing, claps and flushed faces looking onward at them.

Then he spots Rafinha once more, he was hard to miss; someone that attractive with perfectly toned arms and—And, fuck. Why was he dancing like that? And why was he meeting gazes with the blond who remained on the couch, a smirk spreading across his lips, as he leans back to revel at the view in front of him. 

And, fuck, this was creepy wasn't it? Dark brows furrow at the sight of Rafinha beckoning the blond with a finger, the thin lips of the German uttering who-knows-what. A disappointed looking Rafa slips further away from the couch but still maintains the steady movement of his hips as he moves to the music.

"Neymar, I think you need to—"

But it's too late to reason with him now, not when he has a solid plan in order. He offers a parting smile to Messi, who only groans in response, then slinks back into the kitchen to retrieve another beer along with a strawberry that he coats with whipped cream. Then like that, much like magic, he is ghosting into the living room to slip behind the other Brazilian.

'Work' by Rihanna is playing over the speakers and he genuinely can't resist; not when it was his favorite song at the moment. He sips at the beer as he sways back and forth to the music, the other hand currently occupied with the strawberry he has yet to even taste. Eventually he rolls his body into Rafinha's to which the Brazilian glances back at him with the broadest of grins, though it fades when it wasn't who he was expecting.

The movements of his body don't relent, however, as he fluidly moves against his fellow Brazilian. No, of course not, why would he? He presses his hips back against Neymar's teasingly, grinding against him. Neymar leans forward into the warmth of the latter's body and produces the strawberry, pressing it against the younger's plump lips, smearing the whiteness of the whipped cream across them.

Rafinha glances back at him through the minimum space between them with furrowed brows, one of his fingers reaching up to swipe at the fluffy condiment, pressing said fingers back against the elder's lips. Neymar graciously accepts the digits and sucks them earnestly from those nimble fingers, hazel hues connecting with chocolate. Once more those chocolate eyes glance past him towards where the German was currently sliding to the edge of the couch cushion, face flushed crimson, hands clenched to fists at his sides.

"Hey, hey? Look at me," demands the Brazilian as hazel attempts to connect with chestnut but to no avail. "Rafa?"

Seconds tick by faster than normal as a pair of pale arms swoop in to tug the Brazilian away, leaving the man standing there looking bewildered. Hazel hues follow the two retreating forms; the way Rafinha looks up at the blond with a triumphant smirk, how un-impressed the German is as he stares down at him.

Neymar continues to move his body to the music though, taking a few bites from the strawberry as he does so, at least before he nearly chokes on the fruit when he sees the German shove the shorter against the wall of the hallway leading towards the bedrooms. The whiteness that coats plump lips is faintly visible, that is: until it's immediately swept away by Marc, the two engaging in a fervent kiss.

How does he even begin to process the sight that unfolds before him? His body seems to get the gist of it, though his mind falls behind. All the moisture in his mouth immediately dries up and he feels a familiar tightness forming within his jeans. And, yeah, okay—This is sort of wrong but sort of right, but all he knows right now is that he can't take his eyes away from the sight.

His movements halt abruptly as the two stumble throughout the hallway until one of the doors relents beneath the shorter's back, sending the two surging into the room. Teeth clench tightly at that, mainly because the two had chose his bedroom. Sneaker-clad feet mobilize then as he saunters behind the duo, more on their own accord than anything else.

The door is slightly ajar when he approaches it and, even though he knew it was wrong, he still peeks in curiously. What he sees makes him choke once more. There Rafinha is, already shirtless, his legs spread wide to accommodate the German who is sliding between them and engaging him in another heated kiss.

A soft sigh echoes from somewhere on the bed and he instantly knows it belonged to Rafinha. It doesn't occur to him how peculiar it was that he knew that, but it's not like he's going to question that now, not when russet fingers are popping the buttons on Marc's denim shirt. 

Neymar unconsciously reaches down to his jeans to adjust himself, offering himself a squeeze through the fabric that brushes against him. Even the slightest bit of friction the action gave him made him moan. The bodies on their bed go rigid for a moment then he's met with a pair of steely blue hues; how didn't he notice how attractive the blond was until now?

Hushed whispers are barely audible from the room but then he's met with chestnut hues and nothing else really matters. Nimble fingers are beckoning him into the room and he stupidly points to himself for confirmation, which earns an eye roll from Rafinha, who then occupies that hand with smoothing down Marc's toned chest.

"You were just going to stand there the whole time, weren't you?" Neymar tugs at the collar of his thin t-shirt at the husky sound of Marc's voice.

"I would have lef—I was going to walk away, but—.." Cerulean hues are narrowed in scrutiny and the Brazilian squirms beneath the heaviness of his gaze. He glances to the other for some form of assistance, but the latter is far too occupied with staring up at Marc with lust-filled eyes. "I'm sorry, Mats."

Marc nods his head at that then glances back down at the awaiting male beneath him, who presses his hips upward to grind against his. Soft signs echo the German at that before he motions towards the door with a free hand: "Just—just close the door."

He didn't need to be told twice as he scrambled the few feet back towards the door, locking it securely, shifting back on his heel for further instruction. "Come here?" That's Rafa speaking now, he knows, his legs carry him there to the side of the bed as well. 

Marc shifts so he's on his knees between Rafinha's legs, his large hands rubbing his thighs up and down. Cerulean hues are only wide with curiosity when one of the younger's hands winds around the elder's neck, tugging him down for an open-mouthed kiss. Jealousy rises within his veins but he can't complain; the sight was far too delicious to behold and he was far too captivated to look away.

"M-marc," is the heady whisper that echoes from Rafinha's plump lips, however, and the German has restored faith in the rendezvous.

Neymar looks dejected as he withdraws from the kiss with wide, hazel hues and slightly parted lips. He quickly soothes them with his tongue before pushing off the comforters—his comforters—in favor of blindly stalking backwards until his legs meet the front of the swivel chair he had positioned in front of his desk. 

"Look, you can watch, just—Just don't touch him?" Marc hesitantly grumbles aloud as he focuses his attention back on the Brazilian once more, who only stares up at him in wistful appreciation. "I'm doing this for him."

Chestnut hues flicker back to the Brazilian currently positioned in the chair, and Neymar finds himself squirming once more. Nothing is said nor done between the three for a considerate moment; almost as if everyone was pondering whether or not this was appropriate. But eventually the two are kissing again and the brunet is squeezing himself through the fabric of his jeans. 

Things heat up a few minutes after that when Marc tugs down Rafinha's jeans and briefs to mid-thigh, the Brazilian repeating the action with the German's clothing. All he can do is bare witness as the two breath together, one pale elbow positioned on one side of Rafinha's head, while the other hand is occupied with stroking both of their cocks in a slow, fluid rhythm—learning his body, more like it, and what he liked.

Once more a red tongue makes an appearance to swipe along his bottom lip, tanned hands going to his own jeans to tug them down until they pool at his ankles, repeating the action with his briefs but without the patience to get them to his ankles. Instead they grip snugly around his knees, not uncomfortably but far from pleasant. 

One of his hands wraps around his cock at the beautiful sight before him; plump lips parted ever so slightly to release breathy sighs of Marc's name, the German peppering open-mouthed kisses along the column of Rafinha's neck. It was like a porno playing out in front of him—granted, it was just his fellow teammates, but that didn't make it any less exotic. 

"Tighter, Marquinho—p-please.. Like that, yes.." 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Neymar unconsciously tightens hold on his own cock and his hips twitch upward with the movement. His head falls backwards so his gaze is directed at the ceiling but it doesn't last, no, it wasn't as satisfactory as watching the brunet and his blond on the bed. When he glances back he finds the two grinding against each other, Marc's slender arm still pressed between their chests. 

Cerulean and chestnut stare into the other's eyes as the two slowly reach their peak, the breathing on the bed becoming more labored by each passing minute. Hazel hues abide by the movements of Marc's hand; tightening on the upstroke, squeezing when he slides down to meet the base, then twisting as he works the shaft. 

Neymar is whimpering at the lack of attention from the other's but he doesn't voice it aloud as he thrusts into the fist his hand makes around his cock, the image within his mind of him pleasuring Rafinha, that it was him making him moan lowly in his throat like that. One of his hands trails up his chest to mimic how Marc mouths at Rafinha's nipples, except Neymar has to use his fingers instead of a warm, undeniably hot mouth that blows air onto the thoroughly abused bud once he's content. 

Then they're kissing again and the momentum of Marc's hand speeds up and his hips buck against the Brazilian beneath him, spluttered Portuguese filling the room, resonating to gently caress Neymar's eardrums. He bares witness to the sight of Rafinha's back arching off the bed and into the contours of Marc's body and he, too, finds himself releasing into his hand with a soft sob.

And he may have been imagining it but he swears he hears his name on Rafinha's lips when he cums, though the sound of Marc's name directly after didn't deter his orgasm in the slightest. He chokes on Rafinha's name and he sees the blinding bright light that gradually clouds his vision, blurring the features of the forms still moving on the bed. His attention remains on stroking the head of his cock as he rides his orgasm, eyes clenching tightly shut, his chest heaving wildly.

Another grunt is heard in the room and he knows it's Marc cumming, and he partially wishes he had his sight to behold it. But alas the only sound that echoes in the room after a minute is the sound of labored breathing and attempts at catching proper breaths. Neymar slouches back against the swivel chair, the force of him going slack spinning him slightly to the side.

Soft whispers are heard from on the bed but Neymar doesn't have the strength to strain his hearing in order to hear whatever saccharine exchange the two were making. Instead he pushes back against the chair until it bangs loudly against the desk where a box of tissues lay poised and undisturbed. He hears the faint shuffling of sheets upon the bed and decides to be kind, sliding back to the sight of his debauched bed to hand off the tissue box once he's gathered a wad.

"Thank you.. For that.." He awkwardly croaks as he leans forward in the chair to tug up his briefs and jeans, angling off the seat for a moment, until they're properly on his form.

Marc offers him a small, weak smile as he uses the tissues to clean up the mess on Rafinha's lower abdomen and then doing the same treatment to himself a second later. "It wasn't even weird that you were.. Y'know.."

The corner of Rafinha's lips quirk into a smug smirk as he glances from Marc to Neymar and back again. "It was pretty hot. See? I told you so, you didn't think it would be." Russet arms are encasing a pale neck then he's pressing a warm, tender kiss to thin, reddened lips.

Neymar watches on slightly disgusted by the sight, though he pins it on jealousy. "I, uh—I think I'm gonna go back to my party.."

Marc spares him a glance then shakes his head, "You, err—You don't have to? You could, uh, cuddle with us? If you want? I-I don't mind."

"Neither do I."

And that was the story of how Neymar had found himself sandwiched in between one Brazilian and one German with hopes that maybe—or so he would pray every night—that it would be a regular occurrence.

 

 

The party?

 **Definite success**.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes? No? Miss? Score? Lemme know ? D: 
> 
> (( and, yes, I am sort of ashamed. lol ))


End file.
